


City of Symphonies

by Starrie_Wolf



Series: Gift Fics [Starrie Wolf] [1]
Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Canon - Movie, Canon Rewrite, For a Friend, M/M, Multi, Mythology References
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-13 03:44:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3366494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starrie_Wolf/pseuds/Starrie_Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legends tell of the nine Muses, the personification of dance and music, led by the man eventually to be known as Apollo. Some say he was named for the Greek verb ἀπόλλυμι (apollymi), "to destroy". Others connect his name with ἀπόλουσις (apolousis), "purification". He was the one who summoned the Sun from the Heavens, who warded away evil, whose music cured diseases, but whose arrows brought plague and death. He was represented not only by the bow and arrow, but also by the lyre, the plectrum and the sword.</p><p>As with all legends, his birth name had long since faded into obscurity in the Mundane world.</p><p>Jonathan Shadowhunter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You expect me to believe that demons exist?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Siavahda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siavahda/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Demons react to certain frequencies when two tones cross. It drives them crazy. See, Bach was the first to discover this and put it into a system using a mathematical progression of tonal combinations. It allows us to expose demons”  
> “So Bach was a Shadowhunter?”  
> “Yes.”  
> “So Bach is to demons... what garlic is to vampires.”  
> “Kind of. I mean, you can run out of garlic. You can't really run out of music.”
> 
>  
> 
> _What do you mean, this is a movie-only scene._
> 
>  
> 
> Give me Shadowhunter Beethoven, who poured his entire soul into Symphony No. 9 as the world’s first portable demon barrier. Give me Shadowhunter Mozart, who was robbed from us in his prime by a demonic curse. Give me Shadowhunter Chopin, who dedicated his life to nurturing the next generation of young Nephilim.

_“You make sure you come straight home tonight.”_

She didn’t remember her mother’s words until she was halfway up the stairs leading into the club, and even then it was just a brief flash of guilt, fizzing out before it could gain any hold. It was her _birthday_ , surely she was allowed some slack? Besides, it wasn’t like she was alone, Simon was with her – even if he couldn’t seem to see the symbol on the sign, which was weird. Maybe there was someone in the club who could explain it to her. She hadn’t missed how the bouncer had no clue what she was talking about either, but the guy who got them into the club seemed to know something about it. Maybe she could ask him.

… _if_ she could find him first. Clary took in the gyrating mass on the dance floor, pulsing like some sort of many-limbed monster. She had always had pretty good night vision, but the blue strobe lights flickering overhead was making it seriously difficult to find that guy from before. Her eyes swept over to the stage instead, where there was a live band performing. She squinted a little. Huh, they looked like they could have been around her age, though they certainly didn’t sound like a cheap garage band.

_“I will be the one that's gonna find you  
_ _I will be the one that's gonna guide you  
_ _My love is  
_ _A burning, consuming fire –”_

On stage, the blond singer continued to belt into the microphone, fingers flitting across the strings of his electric guitar. His eyes were half-lidded and he looked almost half-drunk, but this did nothing to hide the predatory intensity of his gaze. Clary shivered, involuntarily, as it swept over her. What the other teenager was looking for, she had no idea – but she had no doubt that he _would_ find it.

_“No  
_ _You'll never be alone  
_ _When darkness comes I'll light the night with stars  
_ _Hear the whispers in the dark –”_

The air was electrified with the thrum of a good hard beat as the band broke into a long instrumental interlude, and she couldn’t help but bob her head to it, grinning widely as she dove fearlessly into the fray, Simon clutching her hand like a lifeline.

“Yeah, we're fitting in,” he muttered sardonically, clearly ill-at-ease.

Clary laughed in reply. “Go with it, go with it!” she urged. The music swelled to a crescendo, and then there was a sudden lull that signalled a change in songs.

“Clary, you want a drink?”

“Yeah!” She shook her hair out, swaying almost unconsciously to the new song that just started. The blond had smoothly switched places with the other guitarist, a girl whose dark hair was twisted artfully atop her head, strands falling past her shoulders.

_“Puttin’ my defenses up  
_ _‘Cause I don’t wanna fall in love  
_ _If I ever did that  
_ _I think I’d have a heart attack –”_

_Two_ lead singers? Clary laughed out loud in part wonder, part excitement. She could see now, why their band was invited to play in a club despite it only having three members – the two singers were barely-contained miniature stars, a dazzling larger-than-life _presence_ to them that she’d only ever witnessed in the most popular bands.

_“But you make me wanna act like a girl  
_ _Paint my nails and wear high heels –”_

The girl winked at the crowd, sauntering closer to the edge of the stage, until she was balanced on just her stiletto heels. She laughed and spun fearlessly on the precipice, her white dress flaring out in a tight circle. A winding silver bracelet on her right wrist _flashed_ when it caught the light, nearly blinding Clary.

_“I’m flying too close to the sun  
_ _And I burst into flames –”_

Her eyes widened to the size of saucers when the blond – currently the bass guitarist – leaned into his microphone to act as the backup singer. That was at least two octaves higher than his previous song! Exactly _what_ was his vocal range?

“Clary?”

She started almost violently, nearly crashing into Simon. “Sorry!” she yelped, laughing almost breathlessly as he caught her before she could fall, her attention snapping back to the stage where the song was winding to a close, her heart rabbiting in her throat. A cool glass was pressed into her hands and she took it, grateful for something to hold onto, something to anchor her. “That was – _something_ , yeah.”

“Encore! Encore! Encore!”

“They’re a really good band,” agreed Simon quietly, voice nearly drowned out by the screaming of the crowd. His gaze went a little shuttered, and Clary sighed, gently touching him on the arm. It wasn’t his fault that Millennium Lint would probably never take off, not like the trio onstage. Simon wasn’t a half-bad backup singer, but two people did not a band make.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the two teenagers smile and wave to the crowd.

“Thank you, thank you, I know you can’t get enough of my beautiful self, but we’ll be back after an intermission break!” The blond grinned, teeth gleaming in the dim light, and suddenly it was as though something with huge, snapping jaws had just lunged out at her, rows of sharp pointy teeth and cruel smirk, like a shark in a 3D movie.

“What an arrogant prick,” muttered Simon. Clary shot him a glance, but he seemed impervious to the – whatever it was – that had spooked her. Needing to take her mind off the bone-chilling image, she glanced around the milling masses.

It was by pure luck that she spotted him, then – that guy who got them into the club. Clary blinked, clutching the glass in her hands tighter as his gaze seemed to tear _through_ her, and then shift away, upwards. She turned to follow his gaze and saw the girl in the white dress, the one who had been performing just a moment ago, tilt her head in a clear invitation, a faint smile touching her lips.

As though transfixed, Clary tracked her movements through the crowd, mesmerised by the stately way she carried herself, the way the crowd parted silently, unconsciously for her. Off the stage, her presence had dimmed somewhat, and it was now easier, clearer to see that the other girl was just a teenager like herself. She watched as the two met up, as the girl inclined her head towards the back of the stage, and she didn’t need to hear their conversation to know what it was about.

A flash of movement caught her eye.

Clary’s eyes flickered downwards, to where she could have _sworn_ something had _moved_ , cold and glittering, but there was nothing –

The bracelet wrapped around the girl’s wrist slithered steadily downwards, through the loose circle formed by her fingers. Clary’s breath caught in her throat, struggling against the next breath of air in a near-silent gasp swallowed by the pounding music. Another breath, and then the boy stumbled backwards, tripping, but the singer lifted her hand and something _snapped_ around his throat. He snarled, hands flying up to claw at – whatever it was – but before he could get it off there was an arm around his throat, another dark-haired figure struggling to subdue him.

Clary glanced around wildly, but the crowd danced mindlessly on, as if – as if no one could see them, how was this even _possible_ – where was security when you needed someone –

Her gaze swung back as though magnetised, but no, somebody did see the struggle, it was that blond singer from just now, sun-kissed hair now hidden under a hood, and she almost let out a sigh of relief for surely, surely he wouldn’t stand for this?

Until she saw the blade in his hand.

She could fancy _hearing_ the metal rasp against his fingers as he stroked the blade – but that couldn’t be possible, not with the noise in the club – and then with a movement almost too quick to follow, he struck, a slash and a stab, and the dagger was buried in the restrained boy’s chest.

The glass slipped from her numb fingers and she _screamed_.

The club went eerily silent.

Clary clapped her hands to her mouth, breathing sharply.

“Clary. Clary, what is it?”

Unable to speak, she could only point in the direction of where the three band members – _murderers_ , this was planned, premediated _murder_ in cold blood – were still standing, and _oh dear sweet stars and above all three of them were looking right at her_.

She cringed automatically, mind racing a thousand miles a second – _are they going to kill me too_ – because every detective novel said the same thing, that you kill the witness to your crime, even if she wasn’t sure whether she counted as a witness seeing that _everyone_ was staring at the three of them now, surely they couldn’t kill everybody could they?

A movement out of the corner of her eye, on the floor, caught her attention. Morbidly fascinated, her eyes slipped lower, but there it was, yet another impossible sight: the boy who’d just got stabbed, he – he was _writhing_ on the floor, and what were those things spilling out of him, were they _tentacles_?

“Clary?” There were arms around her shoulders, and she could feel Simon tapping her insistently, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the grotesque, _impossible_ sight.

“You don’t see that?” her voice was trembling.

“See what?”

Clary stumbled backwards, swallowing around a dry throat. “Let’s – let’s just get out of here.” She wasn’t too proud to say that she ran, feeling the three gazes boring laser holes into her back the entire time. _Please let them not have gotten a good look at me._

She whirled on Simon the moment they left the club. “I know what I saw! They killed the guy that let us in the club.”

“Did you drink something?”

Clary made a high-pitched noise of frustration. “No, Simon!”

“Look, I've heard sometimes they pump hallucinogenic stuff into the air vents, to make sure people have a good time,” Simon argued, raising his hand for a cab.

She snorted, because as much as she appreciated having a possibly reasonable explanation for all this, that wasn’t possible. “Okay, then, how come you're fine? Do we breathe different air?”

“I don't know,” Simon sighed. “Let's just go home.”

~*~*~*~

“Look,” and she slapped the pieces of paper she had torn from her walls, fighting down a shiver at the thought of waking up that day, her fingers coated in chalk dust and hundreds of those strange symbols papering every single surface in her room. “Suddenly, I'm drawing hundreds of these things and I have no idea what they are.” She took a shuddering breath, and then another. “I don't know... I think I'm going out of my mind.”

“Maybe you're like the guy in ‘Close Encounters’. Everybody thought he was paranoid and then it turned out to be, well...”

But she had stopped listening.

Outside the glass walls of Java Jones stood that blond from Pandemonium, the one who had stabbed another person in the heart without a blink.

“Oh, no, this isn’t happening –” she whispered. _How had they found her so fast?_

In the afternoon sun, he looked almost _normal_ , standing there in a hoodie, his hands in his pockets and a bag slung over his shoulder – for a wild moment she thought he had come with a body bag, before reason reasserted itself. He would hardly carry around a body bag in the shape of a guitar case.

“This isn’t happening,” she murmured again, letting herself fall onto Simon’s shoulder, trying to hide herself.

When she glanced back into the street, the blond was gone.

She barely had the time to breathe out a sigh of relief – perhaps it had been a hallucination, after all – before _something_ made her look up, at the counter. The blond had sauntered into the coffee shop, into _her_ sanctuary with Simon, a faint smirk curling his lips, and suddenly the fear took a backseat.

She wasn’t just going to run and hide anymore.

“Wait here.”

Clary heaved herself off the couch, stepping into the alley behind Java Jones, and whirled around the moment the door shut behind the blond. “Why can I see you and no one else can?”

“I was going to ask you the same question.” Off the stage, his voice came out as a mellow tenor, and she felt a little stab of horror that just yesterday she had been _in awe_ of him, of his entire band.

“I don't even know why I'm talking to you,” she snapped, more at herself than at him. “You're a killer. A cold-blooded killer.”

“As opposed to a peace-loving killer?” His facial expression didn’t change, his eyes boring intently into hers, but she could _swear_ he was amused.

“I _know_ what I saw,” she snarled.

“You _think_ you know.”

She grabbed his outstretched arm, turning it around to reveal the symbol inked into his wrist, the exact same symbol that she had become horribly familiar with over the past day. Dropping his arm like she was burnt, she snatched one of her drawings from her bag. “Why am I drawing this?”

“So I was right. You're not a mundane.” Was that a glint of satisfaction in his eyes?

“Excuse me. What's a mundane?”

“Someone from the human world.”

“If I'm not a human then what am I?” Clary snarled. She was _so sick_ of this boy coolly dancing around her, never giving her a straight answer even though she had him cornered. Though – her eyes darted around the alley, noticing how he was slowly circling around her, always giving himself an escape option – perhaps he wasn’t as cornered as she thought he was, especially if nobody but her could even see him.

Her phone started ringing in her pocket, then, but both of them ignored it.

Why was he still here, still talking to her? He could have been gone long ago.

“When did this start?”

“No. No.” He didn’t get to ask _her_ questions, damn it. “Why am I drawing this?” The blond tilted his head, studying her as if she was a particularly intriguing species of insect he had never encountered before. “ _Answer me_!”

Her phone rang again, cutting through the silence, and she gave a frustrated growl.

“Maybe you should answer that. It could be your boyfriend.”

“He's not my boyfriend.” The retort came automatically after months of telling her mother the same thing, of trying to figure out why the thought of being with Simon felt so right and yet so wrong, like two puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit together, but which were nevertheless parts of the same whole. Besides, Simon wouldn’t call her, he’d poke his head into the alley to check if she was still there first.

“Does he know that?” Clary had to roll her eyes at that, because really? _Really_? Was that even _remotely_ the most important thing here?

“Please, it's annoying.”

Clary would have punched him, but she was too busy pulling out her phone, and a single glance at the Caller ID told her everything she needed to know. “Mom, I'm coming home,” she barked into the phone, her finger already on the ‘End Call’ button before she registered her mother’s reply.

“No, you can't come home!”

Her finger slipped, gripping onto the side of the phone instead. “What?”

“You understand me? You don't come home.” Without waiting for a reply, her mother continued, voice breathy and strained. “You call Luke. Tell him Valentine's alive and that he found me.”

There was a deafening crash that sounded like _the door breaking_ , almost covering up her mother’s next few words. “I love you.”

The line went dead in her hands.

“Mom!”

Without conscious thought, the phone was back in her pocket and she raced out into the road, narrowly missing being hit by a car that swerved sharply to avoid her, the blaring of horns a distant background buzz overshadowed by the pounding of her pulse in her ears, her world narrowing down to the road in front of her, the distance between her and home.

She hit speed dial three for Luke, pressing the phone to her ear like a lifeline, gritting her teeth as the call went to voicemail.

And again.

She skidded to a halt in front of the door, her breath exploding out like a punch to the gut. Wide disbelieving eyes took in the tornado of destruction that swept through the house, leaving behind a trail of splintered wood and broken glass.

“Mom?” Her voice came out shaky, plaintive.

She took a few steps into the house, for what, she had no idea – perhaps hoping foolishly, like a little girl dreaming of fairy tales, that it was all an illusion. That at any moment now, her mother would pop up behind the overturned couch and yell, “Surprise!” And Luke would be there, hiding behind the splintered remains of the cabinet, holding up a banner that said “Happy belated birthday Clary!”

No, no, they wouldn’t do that.

She took another step, her mother’s bedroom coming into sight.

The nearly subsonic growl alerted her before her eyes picked out the incongruous sight of a dog in the middle of her mother’s bedroom, beady black eyes trained on her. It gave another growl, and then _leapt_.

But she was already running, running down the corridor, shoes squeaking on the wooden floor as she slipped into her room and pressed herself against the wall. The dog came charging in a few moments later, sniffing audibly, and before it could turn around and spot her she darted out of the door and slammed it shut behind her.

Dogs didn’t have opposable thumbs. It would be trapped in there.

Morbidly, she looked down through the smashed slates, just in time to see the paws slam into the broken door. She jerked back instinctively, but so did the dog, backing up a few steps and shaking its head violently, almost as if something – was – was –

 _Out_.

Her fingers fumbled for the house phone, but one glance at the shredded wires told her there would be no help from this quarter. Besides, who would she call? The police? _Luke_? What could any of them do?

There was one last deepened growl from a throat that definitely no longer belonged to a dog, and then abrupt silence. Still, Clary spun back around, her fingers clutching at the doorframe, scrabbling uselessly for a weapon, alerted by something she couldn’t explain just in time to see _something_ fling itself across her room, trailing long waving tentacles.

A scream tore itself out of her throat before she could strangle it, and she backed up against the kitchen counter, her breaths coming out in loud, harsh pants.

She was going to die, she was going to _die_ if that thing got her, and she couldn’t, couldn’t, not when her mother was still missing, not when she was likely the last person to have talked to her, the only person who might know what had happened to her mother.

_You kill all the witnesses._

Was that why this was happening? Did her mother know about it? Was that why she had made sure that what was possibly her last words to her daughter were, “ _I love you_ ”?

_I’m sorry, Mom._

_I think I’m going to die._

Her hip bumped into the kitchen counter, next to the stove.

 _Fire_.

She flung the cupboard door open, snatching up the spare canisters of fuel and very nearly dropping them, palms slippery with sweat. Uncapped, one of them rolled slowly across the hob as she turned all the dials to the stove up to the maximum, glancing over her shoulder every few seconds.

That was how she got her first good look at the formerly-dog-currently-unknown monster. It clambered up onto the broken door and _hissed_ at her, jaws agape like a venus flytrap, exposed flesh bubbling where it had _torn_ itself out of the dog’s body.

Clary went still.

Her left hand inched towards the drawer beneath the stove, where she knew they kept the igniter.

_Please don’t notice._

She would only get one chance at this.

Clary ducked, slamming her knee painfully into the cold marble floor as a tentacle shot through where her head had just been. The edge of the drawer sliced into her wrist, but she felt her fingers close over the plastic handle of the igniter and she yanked it out, scrambling sideways as the monster dove onto her.

Her head smashed into the refrigerator door and she yanked it closed behind her, hearing the tentacles scrabbling on the other side of the door. Any moment now, and the monster would realise how to open it, would rip the door off its hinges and there would be nothing stopping it from devouring her whole.

_Please, let this work._

The igniter clicked, once.

A flash, and then –

The world exploded.

She might have passed out briefly. There was no way to tell. She could have laid there for minutes, hours for all she knew, huddled against the interior of the refrigerator. Everything was silent, but for the dull ringing in her ears. Slowly, cautiously, she uncurled herself, hesitantly pushing the door open.

Every single crunching footstep reverberated in her skull, disproportionately loud, and she winced, gingerly reaching up to touch her ear. Her fingers came away sticky with blood.

Something _moved_ on the ground.

No. _No._

Clary backed away slowly, but a wave of vertigo swept over her and she tripped, crashing heavily onto the floor. She scrambled backwards as fast as she could, eyes fixed on the amorphous blobs oozing back together to form the same grotesque figure from before.

No she was going to die she _didn’t want to die somebody_ –

Great, as if being eaten by a monster wasn’t enough, her mind had apparently decided now was a great time to start hallucinating. Though, she couldn’t understand why it would conjure up the sound of a flute of all things, nor – the melody line was vaguely familiar, though she couldn’t put her finger on it immediately.

She wasn’t the only one who could hear that.

The monster paused, tentacles quivering inches before her face, shaking itself in a manner that reminded her of a dog – no matter that it wasn’t actually a dog – and then it _cringed_.

The next few moments happened too fast for her to follow, a blur of motion and the glint of a dagger.

The next thing she could register was the monster bursting into a puff of black smoke, and the blond from Java Jones, from Pandemonium, flicking his blade calmly as though he did this every day.

 _Maybe he did_. At this point, Clary didn’t think she could be surprised by anything anymore.

The blond frowned at her, and then jerked his hood off, running a hand through his hair. In a fluid motion, he closed the distance between them and dropped down next to her, yanking her against his chest. “Breathe, just breathe,” he murmured quietly. “It’s dead. You’re safe now.”

“What –” Clary rasped, swallowing around a dry throat “– was that?”

The blond shrugged. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me,” she challenged.

“It was a demon.”

Clary stared at him, trying to parse if he was joking. “You're right. I don't believe you.” That was what she said, but her voice came out resigned, as though on some level, she accepted the answer.

“And –” the tune finally clicked in her mind, “ _Greensleeves_?”

“Demons react to certain frequencies when two tones cross. Most minor keys work, but tritones drive them absolutely crazy,” explained the blond. “See, Bach was the first to discover this and put it into a system using a mathematical progression of tonal combinations. It allows us to expose demons. But it’s harder to play Bach on a flute.”

He was being surprisingly forthcoming all of a sudden, pointed out Clary’s cynical side. “So Bach is to demons what garlic is to vampires.” She raised an eyebrow.

“Kind of.” The blond shrugged, apparently not picking up on her sarcasm. “I mean, you can run out of garlic. You can't really run out of music.”

“So, not just demons, but you’re telling me that vampires exist as well,” Clary said flatly.

“Yes.”

“And you find them… using flutes.”

“Well, I could have taken the time to find an electric socket and plug my guitar in, but I presumed you didn’t want to wait.”

She didn’t even know how to _begin_ to respond to that, so she kept silent. Evidently, he took it as a request to elaborate. “That thing you saw me kill at the club, that was also a demon.”

Was he really still going on about those?

“And demons can take possession of any living creature. You can't trust anyone. Even people you think you know.” His voice was quiet, almost contemplative.

Clary pounced on the opening. “So why should I trust you?”

There was the sound of a door slamming downstairs, and they both jumped. Oh, of _course_ , Madam Dorothea, who lived downstairs – perhaps she had heard something? Without waiting for an answer, she leapt to her feet, taking the stairs two at a time, ignoring the voice floating down behind her.

“I did just save your life.”

She skidded to a halt in front of her neighbour’s door, pounding on it. “Dorothea, open up! _Please_.”

The door creaked open, a fraction, Dorothea’s familiar face appearing in the crack.

“Can you –”

Before she had even finished her question, the door was slammed resolutely shut in her face.

Clary reeled back in shock, but slammed her palm against the door again – _that was not the reaction of someone who had no idea what happened_ – “Do you know what happened to my Mom?” her voice broke embarrassingly, but she didn’t care about that, didn’t care about anything else, because there was a chance that someone, _someone_ knew what happened to her mother, maybe even knew where she could find her.

The door opened again.

“Do you?”

Instead of answering her, Dorothea glanced to the side, and Clary spun around to see the blond from before standing right in her line of sight. She inhaled sharply. “Wait. You can see this guy?”

“Of course she can, she's a witch.” Before Dorothea could respond, the blond snarked back. Clary shoved the door open and stepped inside without a second word, her heart pounding in her chest in sinking realisation, because maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t all just a figment of her imagination and she wasn’t going mad. She’d known Dorothea since she was a child, Simon had definitely been able to see Dorothea, and so had other people, people who’d come to visit her little magic shop.

“Downgraded from a gingerbread house to a one-bedroom?”

Clary shot the blond a quelling glare, trying to tell him without words to _shut up_.

“Do you know where my Mom is?”

“Sorry. I have no idea.” It was the first time Dorothea had spoken, eyes darting between her and the blond, as though she wanted them to leave but couldn’t figure out how to make them do so.

Still, Clary barrelled on, unwilling to stop now that she could possibly find a clue as to what had happened to her mother. “Well, she mentioned a name,” she tugged at her hair, trying to recall it, “uh, Valentine.”

Her head snapped over to the blond, who was suddenly lighting up every single one of her senses with _danger danger red alert_ , even though his facial expression didn’t so much as twitch. Rows and rows of sharp teeth flashed into her mind, overlaying with his figure, and just like in Pandemonium she recoiled slightly.

The image disappeared as soon as it had appeared, and the blond was back to studying her with a faint hint of puzzlement in the crease of his brow.

“You better leave.”

Her attention snapped back to Dorothea. “No, please.” She thought for a moment, catching Dorothea’s gaze wander over to the blond in the corner yet again, and realised with a clap of dizzying clarity that it wasn’t _her_ that Dorothea wanted gone. It was the blond that Dorothea was – almost, could she say, afraid of? “Not until you tell me something. Anything.”

With a soft sigh and yet another glance in the direction where the blond stood like a particularly lifelike statue, Dorothea finally relented, closing the door. “Let's see what the cards have to say.”

She turned from the window, where she had been checking for signs of the police, in incredulity. “I'm sorry, but you know that I don't believe in any of –”

“Sit,” Dorothea didn’t quite snap, but her voice brooked no argument.

With a sigh, Clary dropped into the chair in front of the table, shaking her head. Perhaps if she humoured Dorothea, the other woman – _witch?_ –might be more inclined to share.

“Run your hands over the cards.”

Clary paused, her hand outstretched over the first card. “My Mom painted these.”

“Yes. They were a gift,” Dorothea’s voice softened, just a fraction. “Let's see which card gets picked.”

Not expecting anything to happen, Clary slid her hand slowly over the cards. She couldn’t stop the little jerk of surprise as one of the cards floated into her hand as though magnetised.

“The Ace of Cups,” Dorothea murmured at the same time the blond spoke.

“That's the Mortal Cup.”

“So?” asked Clary.

“Ignore him,” advised Dorothea.

“It's a Mortal Instrument. One of the three holy objects of my people. What's it doing here?”

“I don't understand what any of this has to do with my Mom.” Her voice came out plaintive, almost a shout. She was so sick of everyone talking around her without bothering to explain why everything was happening – the blond had been the most helpful so far, that was, if anything he said was true in the first place.

Dorothea gave her a look. “Your mother was a Shadowhunter, Clary. Like him.” She inclined her head in the direction of the blond, but Clary was already shaking her head.

“No, my Mom is a _painter_.”

“She never told you any of this, did she?” And she could have sworn Dorothea’s voice was a little softer, a little sad, but she couldn’t care less about what her mother might or might not have been.

“Look, all I know is that she's gone and I have no idea where to start looking for her.”

Dorothea examined her for a moment. “Let me read you.”

Clary couldn’t help but groan out loud, throwing her hands up in despair, half-wondering why the blond didn’t stop her. He didn’t seem the sort to waste his time on fruitless ventures. Surely _he_ couldn’t believe in this nonsense, could he? Then again, he was the one to call Dorothea a _witch_ of all things. All this shadowhunter business, it sounded like some sort of cult, to be honest. The sort of thing she would ordinarily never have believed her mother had been into, if it wasn’t for her hand-painted tarot cards in Dorothea’s drawer.

Dorothea yanked her head back unceremoniously, one hand cupping her cheek, the other against her temple. Clary glanced back at the blond, only to find him watching the proceedings with barely-concealed impatience, a far cry from his usual impassivity. As he said earlier, he _did_ save her life for whatever reason, so this probably wouldn’t kill her.

She jolted as sensation suddenly flooded her brain between one blink and the next, the sound of raindrops on pavement, her hand clutched tightly in her mother’s, the feel of chalk dust thick in the back of her throat, the sight of a heavy brass door knocker held in the mouth of a lion falling back into place.

“There's something blocking your mind,” Dorothea declared abruptly, while she was still reeling from the rush of sensation. The older woman stood up and opened the door. “My guess is your mother hired someone very skilled to protect you.”

“From what?”

“Your own memories.”

“Why?” she asked in exasperation. “I don't remember anything she'd want me to forget.”

There was a moment of silence as everyone stared at her, and Clary fought the urge to blush as she too caught the lack of logic in her words.

A faint noise from upstairs caught her attention.

“Wait!”

Ignoring the blond, she snatched up the nearest heavy object – the fire extinguisher – and stomped upstairs. If those people who’d taken her mother were back, then –

An apple rolled out into the living room. The intruder must be in the kitchen.

Clary darted forwards, bringing the fire extinguisher crashing down on the intruder, a haze of red washing over her vision. She wanted to get her _mother_ back and _nobody_ wanted to _help_ her.

It took her an embarrassingly long time to realise that the figure bent over clutching his guitar case looked familiar, and so was his voice.

Simon turned to her, betrayal written all over his face. “What the hell?”

“You scared me,” Clary muttered instead of apologising.

“What the hell happened here?”

She was getting _very_ sick of explaining. “My Mom's missing,” she replied instead, getting to the one thing that really mattered.

“What?”

“Someone took her and destroyed the place. Well, um,” she gasped, going back to where she had left the blond, “this guy is helping me find her. But you can't see him. And he –”

“Clary.” And Simon was looking at her, like he couldn’t decide whether he should check her into a mental hospital. Ordinarily, Clary would have understood his knee jerk reaction, because she could barely believe half the words coming out of her own mouth, but it _hurt_ for her oldest friend, her best friend to look at her like that, and she just couldn’t take it after the day she’d had.

“Great. Okay, now I can't see him, either.” She threw her hands up at that, almost tearing her hair out in frustration.

A noise made both of them look up, Clary taking a step closer to the front door instinctively. But it was just the blond, now silhouetted against the light streaming in from the window. “Jace Wayland. Shadowhunter.”

“Uh,” Simon muttered, but he’d always been quicker to adapt to situations than her, which was part of what made him so successful a gamer, she supposed. “Simon Lewis. Keymaster. Are you the Gatekeeper?”

The faint crease in his brow she was oh-so-familiar with was back. “I have no idea what you're talking about,” Jace declared, moving past Simon into the kitchen.

“So you can see him now?” demanded Clary.

“What?” Simon gave her a bemused look. “Of course I can see him. What are you talking about?”

“Just a sec,” Clary groaned. “This is so confusing.”

“Who's this?”

Her gaze slanted over to the picture in Jace’s hand. “It's my Dad. He died when I was two.” Jace’s face shuttered a little at that and he carefully laid the photograph down on the counter, but in the next minute he spun around, stalking out of sight.

Simon pushed her away from the kitchen, lowering his voice to a barely audible volume as he did so. “Clary. So, wait. Your Mom is gone... and you're hanging around with some dyed-blond wannabe Goth weirdo?” He glanced backwards into the kitchen, where they could both hear the sound of rummaging. “You could have told me that you were so insistent on going to Pandemonium last night because you knew the lead singer.”

“What? I didn’t –”

“Though, how did you know him?”

“Well, I didn't... he found me at Java Jones.”

“What? He _found_ you?” Simon asked, in a tone of outrage.

“I know how it sounds –” Clary began in exasperation, only to be interrupted by Jace again.

“Check this.” He handed her a mobile phone. Her mother’s phone, she realised with a painful jolt of hope. “And for the record, my hair's naturally blond.” He raised an eyebrow at Simon. “I’d offer to let you check, but ignorant and obnoxious isn’t really my type.”

Ignoring Simon’s incredulous mutter of, “How the world did he _hear_ me?”, Clary scrolled through the phone. Clary, Clary, Clary, _Simon_.

“She called you?” She whirled on Simon. “Why didn't you pick up?”

“If I'd known it was serious, I would've picked up,” defended Simon.

“Well, how would you know if you didn't pick it up?” snarled back Clary, clutching the phone so tightly she could feel the edges cutting into her fingers. Another link to her mother, gone.

Abruptly, all the fight drained out of her. She wasn’t so hypocritical that she could place all the blame on Simon. If only she had picked up the first time. If only, if only. None of it would bring her mother back, and fighting with Simon certainly wouldn’t. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

Simon shook his head, waving away her apology. “You’re probably frantic, goodness knows I would be.” He bit his lip for a moment, as though there was something he was struggling to tell her about.

Before he could open his mouth, Jace thrust something under her nose, a jewelled bottle she had never seen before.

“What's that?”

“Nothing good.” His voice was grim. “Do you have any idea where she found this?”

No, no, she didn’t – but there was one person who might. “I've got to find Luke.”

~*~*~*~

They ran into problems almost immediately. Namely, that Luke’s bookshop was closed. “It's so weird, his truck's here,” muttered Clary. She hammered futilely against the locked gate for a moment, before giving up and sprinting for the back entrance. “This way.”

Behind her, she heard Jace’s voice. “No, you wait here.”

“Are you kidding?” hissed Simon. “I’m not standing in the rain with my _guitar_.”

She spun back around, just in time to see Jace acquiesce, a strange look on his face that she had no time nor interest to decipher. “It's okay. Just let us know if anyone comes.”

“It’s strange,” she told the blond conversationally. “I've known Luke all these years, but I've never been down here.” A few steps later, she had the feeling she found out why. “What?” Clary whispered, running her hands lightly over the ripped fabric. It looked – _like a padded cell_ – she wanted to say, but the words froze solid in her throat, burning like she had swallowed hot coals.

Jace was eerily quiet behind her, and she had to turn around just to make sure he was still there.

A loud crash from above spurred her into action, and she made to move towards the stairs, only to be stopped by a hand on her shoulder. Jace gave her a nod, slipping past noiselessly.

“Come on, mate!”

“I don't know.” And that was definitely Luke’s voice, if much hoarser than she was used to hearing.

“Now, listen, all you got to do, mate, is tell me the truth.”

“I'm telling you, I don't know where the Cup is.”

“I know you and Jocie are close. I'm not stupid. Am I?” A pause. “Don't answer that. Listen to me, mate, just tell me where the Mortal Cup is. And then Jocie will be fine. Lukey, tell me. Tell me the truth.”

“I don't know,” Luke repeated.

Jace waved at her, holding up what looked like a small crystal penlight. He pointed it at the shelf of books, and she noticed with a sort of dull surprise when the spines rippled as though a stone was thrown into a pond, a clear window from which they could look through forming in a matter of seconds.

“You don't want to make me angry, I'm telling you!” A dull smack of flesh on flesh that made Clary wince in horrified sympathy. “I'm going to ask you again, mate. Where's the Cup?”

“I don't know.” How many times had he said that, in that flat, unemotional tone? Clary wondered. Then – was this why he hadn’t been answering her calls?

Another slap.

“We all want the same thing, huh, Lukey Boy, don't we? Difference is, I think you know where it is. Don't you?”

Luke emitted a low growl, straining against the handcuffs binding him to the chair.

“Come on, come on.” Another punch. “Talk!”

“We need to go,” murmured Jace, touching her shoulder.

She caught his hand, the one holding the crystal penlight. “No, please. You have to help him.”

“You don't understand. They work for Valentine.” She didn’t stop to wonder how he knew that. “He's a dead man. I can't help him.”

“He's like family,” she pleaded. Jace glanced her way for a fleeting moment at that.

“You know what's really amazing, is how much you actually look like a human. Isn't it great?”

Clary flinched at the punch that snapped Luke’s head backwards. “Please.”

And inexplicably, Jace did. Leaving the penlight in her hands, he slipped away. She would turn around to see what he was doing, she really would, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the sight in front of her, of watching her father figure endure increasingly cruel remarks interspersed with blows that sent him reeling as though he were a ragdoll.

“You just got to tell me where Jocelyn hid the Cup. Then you can have her back,” coaxed the man. “Come on, she'll be safe and sound. What do you say, huh?”

Luke spat out a mouthful of blood to the side, glaring up at him, and for the first time the words out of his mouth weren’t “I don’t know”. “I don't want her back,” he snapped, a subsonic growl lingering in the back of his throat. “I couldn't care less.”

No. _No._

“I have spent years _cozying_ up to that woman and her brat for the Mortal Cup,” Luke spat. “Pangborn, listen to me. I want to be the one to give it to Valentine.”

She lowered the hand holding the penlight, unable to continue listening anymore.

“Yeah, right,” snorted the other man, the one who’d been standing to one side while his partner tortured Luke.

“You're making a big mistake,” continued Luke.

“I don't believe you. Do you believe him?”

A vase crashed onto the floor. Clary clapped a hand to her mouth, stifling a cry of horror, but the damage was done. The two men spun around, staring at her in confusion. She could almost _see_ the moment her identity clicked in their heads, for they advanced on her with identical leers.

Jace came out of nowhere, swinging a – what in the world was that, an animal trap? – _something_ with sharp spikes, and catching the nearest one in the arm. “Clary, run!”

“Clary, listen!”

She didn’t stop to listen, pounding down the stairs, her footsteps echoing distantly in her ears. Her mother was kidnapped, possibly dead, and the last lead she had to finding her just went up in smoke.

She nearly collided into Simon at the foot of the stairs, and one look at his wide horrified eyes told her that he’d overheard everything.

“How could Luke say that he didn't care?” she gasped, letting Simon pull her into his arms, away from the scene. “I've known him for as long as I can remember. He used to read to me every night. He's been picking me up at school for years.”

“I know, Clary, I know.”

String-calloused fingers stroked through her hair, but they didn’t stop moving, Simon dragging her almost physically out of the back room. She didn’t care. She just needed to get away from there.

Footsteps raced down the stairs and Simon stiffened in her arms, but in the next moment he relaxed slightly. “It’s just Jace,” he told her.

“Get her out of here!” she could hear the blond hiss, his voice sounding as though it was coming from a long distance away, indistinct and unimportant. Simon wrapped an arm around her shoulders, half-pushing and half-pulling her out the bookstore.

There was a police car parked in front of the locked gate, all flashing lights and wailing sirens. “Oh, look, finally, the cops!” Simon raised his voice, starting forwards. “Excuse me officer, I'd like to report a break-in.”

Clary raised her head, just in time to see the officer’s eyes roll up into the back of his skull.

Her insides froze and she staggered into motion. “Simon, no, stop!”

She needn’t have worried, for the demon possessing the officer only had eyes – if those things could be called _eyes_ – for her.

How could she fight a demon?

_You can't really run out of music._

Her voice was quivering when she sang the first few notes – tritones, Jace had said, now she could only pray he knew what he was talking about – to Greensleeves, and miracle of miracles, the demon stumbled back a few steps. It wouldn’t hold him for long, though – she could already see it shaking off the effects, and there was only so long she could sing for before she had to stop to _breathe_.

The little crystal penlight was still clutched in her hand, but she had no idea how to use it – did she? She could try. She had nothing to lose.

Clary raised the penlight, tentatively stabbing it in the direction of the demon. The light came on with a click, but other than that nothing of interest happened.

Her voice quavered, and died.

The demon snarled, its voice no longer human, and took a stumbling step towards her. Its skin began to bubble, just like the dog’s had done, and with the crystal-sharp clarity of past experience she knew that in a few seconds, it would be all over.

No, no she wouldn’t let it, not when she still had no idea what had happened to her mother. And if she had to become one of these _Shadowhunter_ things to find her mother – then, it was past time she started behaving like one.

Hardly aware of what she was doing, Clary raised the penlight again, drawing the first shape that came to mind. The penlight left a blue trail of light in the air, in a complex shape she didn’t recognise, but nevertheless _knew_ in her bones would _work_.

“ _Stay_ ,” she snarled with all the force she could bear.

She could feel something _snap_ into place in the world around her, all smooth lines and rounded edges, forcing the demon away from her. She shuddered and cringed as claws skittered over the barrier in high-pitched shrieks, like nails across a chalkboard.

The claws went for another pass that made her physically take a step back, but something else moved in the dark, and there was a loud clang instead. She opened her eyes – when had she closed them? – and Simon stood there, panting, his guitar case raised for another strike.

The demon stirred slowly, shaking its head rapidly, and Clary watched with growing revulsion as the back of its neck split open, spilling forth a mess of tentacles.

But there was a flash of silvery-gold, and then Jace was there, slashing his dagger across the demon’s neck with quick practised strokes – maybe he really did do this every day, after all –

– and then he was off, clearing the parked police car in one jump, kicking the door closed as the other officer tried to get out and burying his dagger into the other demon’s back.

“We need to get out of here.”

Jace didn’t dispute Simon’s words, pointing towards an alley. “Let’s go.”

Clary only managed a few steps before she couldn’t do it any longer, collapsing against the wall.

“Clary. We can't stay here, they'll find us.” Someone was holding her up, tapping insistently at her shoulder. She focused blearily, a sea of brown swimming in her vision. Simon’s coat.

“I need to find my Mom and I have to go home!” She jack-knifed upright, trying to fight her way out of Simon’s grip. “There must be something that I missed!”

“Listen to me, okay?” Simon tucked a strand of wet hair behind her ears. “We'll figure this out, but not here and not now. I promise you, we’re going to get your Mom back.”

“We need to get you to a safe place,” added Jace’s voice, hovering on her other side.

“Where do you suggest?” she vaguely heard Simon ask.

“Follow me.”

The rest of the journey was a blur, a litany of repeated actions and quiet instructions, Simon’s arm around her waist guiding her where she needed to go.

“We’ll be safe here,” announced Jace, stopping in front of a building.

“What is this dump?” Simon asked, in a tone of outrage.

Clary looked up. And up. “This isn't a dump,” she croaked, her first words since they left Luke’s bookstore. “You just can’t see it.”

She _felt_ more than saw Jace’s tiny grin. “Welcome,” he gestured with one hand, the other busy unlocking the door, “to The Institute.” He took a bow, as though he were performing on stage, and shouldered the door open.

Clary couldn’t help but sigh softly in relief as the door thudded shut behind her, sealing out the cold and the wet.

Distantly, she heard clatters on the grand staircase.

“What the hell is going on? What are they doing in here?”

She was about to turn her head to look, but a fresh wave of dizziness passed over her, and the next thing she was aware of was Simon slapping her cheeks gently. “Clary. Clary?” He looked away from her, then. “Jace, do something!”

Jace was busy with something on her other side. “It's a demon bite.” His voice was grim. There was the sound of tearing fabric.

“Is this the part,” she managed to gasp weakly, eyes half-open, “where you start tearing off pieces of your shirt to bind my wounds?”

Jace was silent for a brief moment. “If you wanted me to take my clothes off,” he snarked back, “you should've just asked.”

The sound of Simon’s hastily stifled snort was the last thing she remembered before darkness overtook her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track List for this chapter:  
> \- Whispers in the Dark [Skillet] - Jace  
> \- Heart Attack [Demi Lovato] - Isabelle  
> \- Greensleeves [traditional folk song] - Jace & Clary


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And we begin deviating from canon.

“For the love of the Angel, what _is_ going on?”

Simon spared a single glance for the dark-haired teenager, who was still halfway up the stairs along with the other girl, that singer from Jace’s band. Couldn’t they see that _now_ was not the time? Whatever this demon bite thing was – he ignored the little voice screaming in the back of his head _oh God demons were real weren’t they_ – it was clearly doing _something_ to Clary, and they had to figure out how to stop it. _Now_.

_Lewis, get a hold of yourself._

Even unconscious, her breathing was shallow and her face pale, and he didn’t know what to do. He’d done first aid courses before, of course, was that why Mrs Fray had signed them all up for first aid refresher courses every year, did she suspect – no no _no_ don’t think about her Mom now, there wasn’t anything he could do to help Mrs Fray, think about Clary. Clary.

Now would be the time to call 911, as advised by every single one of those first aid course instructors. But that was totally out of the question; just the thought alone made Simon shudder. There were some things in this world that he couldn’t un-see, like those cops-but-not-really-cops bursting like sacs of blood and gore and writhing _tentacles_ , all reaching for Clary.

He probably still had some of that blood dripping off his guitar case.

“Ravener bite,” snapped Jace, still crouched over Clary’s unconscious form. He’d ripped her sleeve apart, and pulled out something that resembled a laser pointer, except it seemed to be made of frosted glass or crystal, glittering coldly in the dim light.

“Jace!” With a horrified yell, the other boy cleared the stairs in one leap, landing lightly on the balls of his feet. He didn’t do it with any sort of fanfare, not even breaking his stride as he made it to Jace’s side with a speed that would have awed Simon at any other time. Not now. Not when Clary was lying unconscious on the floor in a strange place, surrounded by strangers. “Jace, stop, you can’t draw runes on Mundanes –”

Mundanes? What, like, normal people? _Humans_? Did that mean Jace and the other two, they weren’t human? Any other time, Simon would have scoffed and made pointed remarks of how they’d been watching too much television, but he’d seen it with his own eyes, seen Clary screaming at what was apparently thin air in the back alley outside Java Jones, seen Jace grappling with an invisible force even as he dragged Clary out of Luke’s bookstore.

Jace snatched his arm away from the other teen’s grip, elbowing him away harshly. “I know what I’m doing, Alec!”

“It’ll just kill her faster!”

_What?_

Belatedly, Simon realised that the word had left his throat in a hoarse shout, catching the dark-haired teen’s – _Alec’s_ – attention for a split second before the dark-haired teen turned back to trying to wrestle Jace’s arm away from Clary. “Mundanes can’t take runes, you know that –”

“ _She’s not a Mundane!_ ”

Alec reared back as though physically slapped. “What?” His voice came out in a strangled cry, worlds apart from Simon’s involuntary interjection earlier. Simon’s eyes snapped over to the other boy, because if he was understanding the situation right, did Jace mean Clary wasn’t human? So if she wasn’t human, what was she?

And more importantly, did that mean these _rune_ things – somewhere in the deepest crevices of his brain, the tiniest part that wasn’t going _insane_ with worry, there was a little nerd voice shrieking about _runecasters_ – wouldn’t kill Clary? That they could cure her?

He was so out of his depth it wasn’t even funny, and here he was, entrusting the life of his best friend to someone they’d just met less than twenty-four hours ago. Because the cops couldn’t be trusted. _Luke_ couldn’t be trusted. There was no one left.

In that moment of hesitation, the blond managed to rip his arm away, and before Simon could react the blue-tinged tip of his pointer ran over Clary’s arm in some sort of symbol Simon couldn’t read. There was a soft hiss, as though the glowing mark was searing itself into Clary’s skin, and then it faded away into nothing.

Was something supposed to happen? Simon glanced at the two boys, hoping one of them would give him a clue, just in time to catch a shell-shocked look flickered over Alec’s face before it smoothed back into impassivity. It all happened so fast, Simon fancied he might have imagined it in the first place. There would be no help from that quarter.

Jace was scowling fiercely, bent over Clary’s arm. “Ekchýlisma,” the blond snarled, but his grip on Clary’s arm was impossibly gentle, the pointer skating over her skin in a blur of blue light, tracing the same symbol over and over again. Each time it sank into Clary’s skin like a tattoo, blazing like a brand for a single moment before disappearing. “ _Ekchýlisma_ , Angel curse it!”

Was it Simon’s imagination, or did the mark begin fading faster and faster each time?

Jace growled inarticulately, his knuckles white around the pointer as he finished his latest attempt, the symbol now fading as fast as he could draw it.

“Alec, _please_.”

Simon’s head snapped up at the broken plea, to where the dark-haired teen was crouched, so perfectly still that he’d honestly forgotten there was someone was right next to them.

Alec rocked back on his heels, eyes flickering between Jace and Clary. Then he stood up, and Simon would have punched him, if he wasn’t suddenly, abruptly sure that the other could snap his wrist like a twig without even realising he was there.

Then that moment passed, and he realised Jace had redoubled his efforts, murmuring _thank you thank you so much_ under his breath.

From his pocket, Alec drew out the same crystal laser pointer-looking thing, but instead of drawing something like Jace was doing, he cupped it in both palms and put it to his lips. Before Simon’s stunned eyes he watched the little rod put out branches like a fast-forwarded version of a growing tree, until it rose well over Alec’s head in a series of translucent pipes all joined together in something that resembled an uneven chimney.

Alec’s eyes fluttered shut, and then he took a deep breath and _exhaled_.

What came out was nothing Simon had ever heard before in his life. Calling it an undulating cry was perhaps the closest he could come to describing the sound, but the term didn’t capture the way his next breath fluttered in his throat like he’d swallowed a live bird, the way his heart threatened to take flight right out of his ribcage.

Alec’s fingers pecked over the instrument, and a series of chirrups, not unlike that of a bird, followed in quick succession. His head bowed, then, and a series of cascading notes swept across the hall, spiralling upwards. For a moment, there was the strangest sensation, like the swoosh of feathers softly, softly over Simon’s skin, passing him by in an instant.

The music rose to a crescendo, and Simon thought to wonder in a single staccato heartbeat how, _how_ this was all possible – _how did he do it make the music tangible could he learn it too_ – and then it was as if a thousand suns had burst into being, chasing away the cacophony of shadows that had crept into the hall with the gloom of nightfall in a single stroke. Simon shielded his eyes with one hand and squinted at Alec’s silhouette, wreathed in flames, so bright it physically _hurt_ to look at him.

No, not flames, he realised as his eyes adjusted to the glare. _Wings_.

Giant wings, each feather a patina of ruby and gold, arching high over Alec’s back and swooping down to wrap around the teen in a cocoon that left only his head and arms exposed. They fluttered in an invisible breeze, unfurling like an ornate scroll, and then beat once.

It took Simon several moments to realise that the music had stopped, that last quivering note blending so smoothly with the ringing silence that he could still hear it thrumming in his ears. He tried to remember how to breathe, followed by a quick lesson on how to swallow on a dry throat, and then the entire reason for all this hit him like a freight train.

 _Clary_.

It was an eternity before he dared to look at Jace. “Did it work?” he asked hoarsely, hoping beyond hope that it was a _yes_ while steeling his heart for a _no_.

Jace was sitting back on his heels, breathing equally heavily, the crystal rod dangling loosely from his fingers. He looked up at the question, blinking blearily, as if he’d temporarily forgotten Simon had even existed, and then an actual grin – not the half-amused smirk Simon had become so familiar with over the past few hours – lit up his face.

“Yeah.” He lifted up Clary’s arm, showing Simon the mark etched into her forearm in delicate curls of black ink, right over the formerly-broken skin. “Look, the rune took.”

“And… that’s a good thing?”

Jace blinked, and then ran a hand through his hair, sending blond strands flying everywhere. “Right, Mundane, I forgot.” He didn’t say it with any sort of malice and Simon let the slur slide, because there were far more important things to worry about. “Ekchýlisma is a rune for extracting demon poison. When it takes, like this,” he explained, gesturing, “it means it’s working.” He shook himself, as if trying to rouse himself from a stupor, and then leaned forwards, scooping Clary up into his arms and rising in a fluid motion – casually, as though she weighed no more than a feather.

Without another word, Jace made for the spiralling staircase, leaving Simon scrambling to catch up. “Where’re you taking her?” he called to the blond’s retreating back, speed-walking in an effort to keep up with Jace’s frankly ridiculous strides. After they got out of this alive, Simon promised himself, he was going to start jogging in the morning. This was ridiculous, he was _taller_ than Jace for God’s sake.

“The infirmary!”

And, well, how could Simon argue with that?

~*~*~*~

“You’re taking this very well.”

Simon looked up at the voice in the infirmary doorway, seeing the silhouette of someone – the girl, judging from her voice – leaning against the entrance. At that distance he could barely make out her features in the darkness – but if she was anything like Clary Simon would bet she could see him perfectly fine.

“I’m sorry,” he made himself say in response. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. My name is Simon.”

“I know.”

Simon paused a moment, just to be polite. “And you are?” he finally prompted.

“Jace’s sister.”

“Okay,” he fought to keep his voice neutral and not aggressive. “Nice to meet you, Jace’s sister.”

Her posture didn’t change. “For a Mundane, you’re accepting our existence exceptionally well.”

Simon let out a soft sigh, shifting on the hard wooden chair that he had been perched in ever since Clary was brought into the infirmary. “I’m not so narrow-minded that I’d refuse to accept something right in front of me, just because it doesn’t fit in my previous world-view.”

And, to be honest to himself? He’d always known, in the back of his mind, that Clary was special.

It was in the way she could play any song she’d only heard once. Or that it was impossible to sneak up on her, ever. Hide-and-seek wasn’t fun _at all_ when Clary could hear his footsteps on the stairs, even when in her room with all the doors closed.

Or that, sometimes, she’d make up stories about pixies hiding in the hedges, or werewolves howling at the full moon, only to forget having done so several weeks later. Every time Simon brought her old stories up, she’d laugh at him and tell him he had a really vivid imagination.

_But it wasn’t me. It was you, Clary._

And of course, how could he forget yesterday afternoon? When Mrs Fray had called him – clearly looking for Clary – he’d declined the call, but he’d gone looking for her where he’d seen her last. Clary had been holding a one-sided conversation with apparently thin air, so engrossed that she didn’t even hear the back door of Java Jones opening. He was about to announce himself, maybe see if he could sneak up on her for the first time in his life, but then she picked up the phone, and within a few sentences had torn down the street like the hounds of hell were right behind her.

Simon had followed, of course he did, but Clary was much faster than a self-proclaimed nerd whose exercise regimen mostly consisted of moving his mouse in complicated acrobatics to dodge boss attacks in a computer game.

He didn’t need super hearing to catch the explosion. Simon had frozen, thoughts of gas leaks spinning in his head, the voice of the first aid course instructor droning in his ear – _always check for danger fist, do not approach if the situation could still be dangerous, you can’t save anyone if you get hurt too_.

He’d pulled out his phone and called 911.

It rang.

And rang.

Finally giving the hotline up for lost, it nevertheless took him long cautious moments before he dared to approach Clary’s house again, thoughts of Clary’s safety spurring him forwards. He’d only managed a brief look around the kitchen – clearly the site of ground zero – before something had barrelled into him from behind, but it was enough to tell him everything he needed to know.

A normal human was amazingly resilient, but a normal human wouldn’t have walked away unscathed from that explosion.

So, demons? _Shadowhunters_? They might not have fit in with the world as he knew it, but in this case he was willing to suspend belief. Clary _depended_ on him right now.

“I’m not your usual Mundane,” he made himself reply.

“So I’ve noticed.” She pushed herself away from the doorway, turning her back on Simon. It was probably to demonstrate how laughably powerless she found him, but all Simon could feel was overwhelming relief that she was leaving, that she wasn’t coming in to finish what the demon had started. Her parting words didn’t inspire much confidence in him either.

“If you hurt my brother, I will _end_ you. And that girl.”

~*~*~*~

“If she’s not a Mundane, what is she?”

Simon flattened himself against the wall and willed his heart to stop racing, hoping beyond hope that the speaker didn’t hear him. If they were as good as Jocelyn or Clary, only by remaining very, very still would that be possible. A part of him was quietly regretting leaving the infirmary at all, though in all fairness there was only so long he could go before he _needed_ the bathroom.

There was a little pause, and then Jace’s voice echoed down the corridor. “A Nephilim, like us.”

“How could you be sure?” His sister’s voice was iron-cold.

“I wasn’t sure, the first time I saw her – at Pandemonium, you remember –” Jace prompted, and she evidently gave some sign of acknowledgement, for he continued without pause “– and I thought she looked familiar, so I dug up the old pictures. It’s like I thought: I would never mistake Jocelyn Fairchild’s daughter for anyone else.”

It was a good thing Simon had been trained into silence with one-too-many hide-and-seek games with Clary as a child, and even then he just barely managed to keep his shock to a widening of his eyes.

“Jace…” his sister’s voice was the most tentative Simon had ever heard it. “Jocelyn Fairchild’s daughter is dead.”

“Yeah, well, the Clave thought Valentine Morgenstern was dead too. Look how accurate that turned out to be.” Jace sounded bitter.

“Look, Jace, how can you be sure they’re telling the truth? All I’m saying is that –”

“Then _you_ explain what else can this mean, and I’m quoting the woman herself, ‘tell Luke that Valentine’s found me’? She had _no idea_ anyone else could hear her, so there’s no reason for her to lie to her daughter!”

“By Luke, you couldn’t mean – _Lucian Greymark_? The werewolf?” There was just the slightest hesitation before she barrelled on. “You’re sure it’s him?”

“I saw him with my own eyes, Izzy. Talking to the men who _murdered my father_ , who but all came out and _said_ they have Fairchild.”

“Jace…”

“Don’t. Clary has what I need – if we find her mother, we find Valentine. And then I can make him _pay_ for killing my parents _._ ”

Simon stood frozen in the corridor, long after the siblings moved out of earshot.

~*~*~*~

“I know you heard us.”

Simon startled awake. There was a moment of weightless disorientation in the dark, something pinning him down, and then everything slowly came into focus. Jace was sitting at the foot of Clary’s bed, his face less than a metre away from Simon, one arm outstretched to stop him from falling off the chair.

“Wazzat?”

The blond actually rolled his eyes. “Us. In the corridor yesterday. I know you were there.”

Simon blinked stupidly, brain sluggishly trying to figure out if he should lie. Given Jace’s highly unimpressed expression, he was taking far too long to decide. “What of it?” he finally asked.

“Now you know.” Jace’s expression was far too blank to be anything but a front, but Simon didn’t call him out on it. _And then I can make him pay for killing my parents_ rang inside his head, the matter-of-fact tone chilling him far more than the subject-matter did. It didn’t sound like a threat; rather, it sounded like a fact. The sun rose in the East, the sky was blue, Jace was going to kill Valentine.

“Now I know, what?” Simon echoed.

“I have no interest in hurting Clary.” And that, that caught Simon’s attention like a bucket of cold water, jolting him fully awake far more effectively than anything else could have done. “We want the same thing – to find Valentine.”

Simon couldn’t refute that. “What makes you think Clary knows how to find him?” he asked instead.

“There’s a block inside her mind. Her mother went to great lengths to hide her memories, and then erased the fact that she’s missing significant chunks of them. If we can remove the block, it may give us a clue.”

Simon opened his mouth automatically to argue, to say that it didn’t make sense, that it couldn’t be possible, and then he remembered Clary’s invisible friends, the stories that she’d always denied having told him. He couldn’t see Mrs Fray erasing Clary’s memories; but then, he wouldn’t have thought she wasn’t human either.

There were a lot of things that he didn’t know, and it was past time he accepted that.

“Okay,” he found himself replying instead. “How do we do that?”

Jace sent him a look, part suspicious and part surprised, but obliged him with an answer. “I’ve sent a missive to the Silent Brothers, who deal with matters of the mind. Once Clary wakes up, we’ll head over to the Silent City to seek their aid.”

“When will she wake up?”

Jace frowned. “It’s been two days,” he muttered speculatively. “Fighting the poison’s taken a lot out of her, but a normal Nephilim should have recovered by now. Though, since she doesn’t have any runes to boost her innate healing, it might take a bit longer.” He blinked, glancing sideways. Simon followed the line of sight, to see Jace eyeing his guitar case speculatively. “You play the guitar,” Jace abruptly declared. “Any good?”

Simon stiffened, affronted. “Just because I don’t play in clubs like you –”

“It’s a job,” Jace snapped back, eyes blazing, and that was enough for Simon to shut his mouth with an audible ‘click’. “I don’t know about Mundanes, but _we_ need to eat.” He visibly shook himself, and then continued in a marginally softer tone. “That’s irrelevant. Are you any good with the guitar?”

“Fairly okay,” Simon grudgingly admitted, mind racing. It was true, he hadn’t seen anyone beyond the three teenagers in the entire Institute, and he supposed that they needed to make money _somehow_ to put food on the table, not to mention if they had to pay for electricity and running water and all the things Simon was vaguely aware that his mother took care of.

One pale brow arched. “Play something,” Jace instructed. “Something heartfelt,” he tacked on. Simon wanted to ask _why_ , but he held his tongue, wary of upsetting the blond further. Besides, he was socially awkward, not stupid – music clearly meant a great deal to the Nephilim, if they were anything like Clary. In fact, in the past two days he’d seen them perform some pretty incredible feats – miracles, even – with music… his mind stuttered to a halt.

_Could he do that too?_

Simon sneaked a look at Jace’s placid expression, which told him exactly nothing. “I’ll need an electrical socket,” he said instead, unpacking his guitar and pulling out the cord.

Jace stood up and crossed over to the wall on the other side of Clary’s bed, motioning for Simon to throw him the cable. There was a soft metallic click, and Simon experimentally strummed his guitar. Heartfelt. He could do heartfelt – especially when the object of his affections was asleep and unlikely to hear his confession. _You’re such a coward, Lewis._

_“I keep listening to my chest  
_ _For a beat but there’s nothing left  
_ _It’s been two days since I’ve seen you  
_ _And I still can’t believe it  
_ _'Cause I’m dying inside alone –”_

He chanced a look at Clary’s face, but there was no change in her countenance, smoothened in sleep. He didn’t know what he was expecting – for her eyes to open, maybe? For her to jump into his arms declaring her undying love for him? Simon mentally scoffed. _Keep dreaming, Lewis._

_“I’m lost without you  
_ _And there’s nothing I can do  
_ _You’re the one I can’t go without  
_ _If I ain't holding on to you then I'll be holding out forever –”_

For a moment, he could have sworn that Jace’s eyes glittered in the darkness, a flash of golden orbs that was gone as fast as it had appeared. He shook himself mentally – it was probably a trick of the moonlight.

_“And I’m willing to wait  
_ _Just to see you another day  
_ _What I’m waiting for  
_ _Will wash this pain away  
_ _And it’s never too late –”_

All his hopes, all his dreams, spilling out in a darkened room to an unconscious girl and a silent shadow by her bedside. Two unlikely companions keeping vigil. But if it would help Clary heal, help her wake up faster, then there was very little Simon wouldn’t do.

_“I’ve got you now and  
_ _I’m not letting go of you  
_ _Never be together long enough  
_ _'Cause every moment I’m with you  
_ _It’s like I’m holding on to heaven –”_

The last note trembled in the air between them, as if struggling against the suffocating silence that permeated the room, though Simon could barely hear it with his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Jace’s eyes were fixed on his, pupils large and luminous where the moonlight reflected off them. He wanted to open his mouth, wanted to ask if it had worked, if Clary was going to wake up now – but his voice was strangled in his throat, afraid to shatter the fragile silence hanging like a thread between them.

Simon blinked, once.

As if waking from a deep dream, Jace unfolded himself from Clary’s bed, getting to his feet with a smooth sinuous motion. “Better than I’d expected,” he tossed over his shoulder, already striding towards the door.

In another moment, the infirmary was empty, not even the flutter of curtains signalling Jace’s abrupt departure. Simon blinked slowly, half-wondering if he’d dreamt the entire bizarre episode, but no, there was the solid weight of his guitar in his hands. “What was _that_ all about?” he asked out loud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ekchýlisma_ is Greek for “to extract” (assuming Google Translate didn’t fail me).
> 
> Track List:  
> \- [YouTube link to “The phoenix takes flight”, played by sheng master Hu.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TQL-jYi15ks)  
> \- Holding On To Heaven (Nickelback) - Simon

**Author's Note:**

> [I have a Tumblr if you're interested!](starriewolf.tumblr.com)


End file.
